“In this house I first met my Harriet. Her attractions were of a kind
to engage my attention; for, like myself, she appeared to be the
child of sorrow; and it was not difficult to discover that she was of
a different order of beings from those who were with her. Her meek
and pensive form, her tenderness to her infant, her courteous and
unaffected manners when chance threw me in her way, soon produced their
effects, and I insensibly forgot my usual train of thoughts in watching
the hour for her appearing in our little garden with her nursling. She
became interested for a man who, at this period, was again the prey of
grief. I had intelligence of the death of my friend Wallace, who fell
as honourably as he had lived. Her pity, her gentle soothings, drew
from my overcharged bosom the whole tale of my woes. She wept, Miss
Cowley; and told me that she also had known the pangs of _severed love_
and _blasted hope_. Thus were our hearts cemented!
“For a time our union was opposed by her brother. I was poor; and in
avowing my poverty Mr. Flamall perceived that I was proud. Miss Flint
employed her influence in favour of Harriet’s wishes; and on giving up
my solicitations at the war office, our marriage took place without
further opposition. My wife mentioned to me a promise she had made
to Miss Flint, in consequence of her good offices with Mr. Flamall;
and expatiating on her sister’s, (as she styled her daughter in law,)
fondness for her infant brother, she timidly proposed to me the
plan of residing with Miss Flint at Tarefield Hall. I saw the mother
in this arrangement; and I admitted the plea. Harriet was pleased,
and Miss Flint was contented. On arriving here I found that every
attention had been paid for securing my domestic comforts. Apartments
were prepared for our exclusive use; and to do justice to Miss Flint,
her conduct was at this period both discreet and generous. But my
character was determined. I had found tranquillity: I had gained a
heart on which to repose: my wife was my asylum from care; but I had
no relish for joy: society was distasteful to me, and the common
amusements of life were irksome and fatiguing. My Harriet, the kind
and guardian angel that heaven had bestowed on me, convinced me that
we were formed for each other. My tastes were hers, my comforts hers,
and retirement was necessary to her happiness. I saw with contentment
Miss Flint’s increasing attachment to the little Philip: she was
continually engaged in the nursery with him; and there appeared a
perfectly good understanding established in our family. But this
season of tranquillity was not permitted to be permanent. The birth of
Malcolm, an event which had opened once more my mind to the sensations
of joy, was marked for a source of petty discontents, and officious
intrusions. Mr. Flamall’s visits to the Hall became more frequent, and
his stay longer. Lucretia, as my gentle Harriet told me with a languid
smile, was jealous of the little stranger, and feared that she should
love him. For a time this passed, but abstracted as I was in myself,
and disposed as I had always been, to reserve with Mr. Flamall, I
discovered that his presence was the signal for Harriet’s depressed
spirits and Miss Flint’s peevishness. Struck from time to time by the
insolent authority he held in the family, and the power he exercised
over a woman impatient of the slightest contradiction from others, I
was led to conclusions which could alone solve the difficulty; and
I foresaw that the time was not remote when Miss Flint would have a
tyrant legally authorized to be the despot at Tarefield. I mentioned my
opinion to my wife; she acknowledged that she believed Lucretia loved
her brother, but that she still loved her independence better; and the
struggle, added she, has been for so long a time so equally maintained,
that I think her temper and his own have gained nothing in the contest.
He has, however, succeeded in gaining her confidence, by his zeal and
knowledge in her business, and his partiality for her darling boy has
confirmed in her a respect for his talents.
“Satisfied at length, that my temper would not conform to Mr. Flamall’s
growing influence, I determined on my measures of prudence; and
mentioned to my wife my wish of residing in France, and particularly
at Nismes, on account of the air, and from motives of economy. She
cheerfully acceded to the proposal, and from that time became my pupil
in the language of the country, rapidly recovering her school knowledge
of it, and with improvement. But when my intention was declared to Miss
Flint, my wife had to sustain a difficult part: prayers, reproaches,
sullenness, and tears were employed to divert her from her compliance
with my wishes and plan. She was firm, and steadily urged, that my
health and spirits were objects which she could not, nor would not
attempt to impede. Mr. Flamall was summoned from town, to assist in
subduing Harriet’s resolution. She referred him to me, and with all
that poor and contemptible _cunning_ which he calls _address_, he
began his attack. He wondered what could have led me to the design of
quitting a situation so convenient to my finances, and so congenial to
my love of retirement. I answered with my usual reserve, that I had
maturely deliberated on my plan, and should adhere to it. ‘You have
been _teased_ into it,’ answered he, ‘by Harriet’s silly complaints of
the temper of Miss Flint. I think she has been wrong, for she has known
her long enough not to mind the submissions she exacts from every one
in her way.’ ‘Lady Maclairn has been hitherto silent with me on this
point,’ answered I; ‘but I thank you for having given me an additional
motive for leaving Tarefield. My wife shall not submit to the caprice
or tyranny of any one whilst I can prevent her degradation.’ He
coloured. ‘I perceive none in her conduct,’ replied he, ‘that is not
enforced by her duty, as the mother of a child who has no father at
hand to protect him. If she complies with the inequalities of this
woman’s temper, she will be well paid for her trouble; and I do not
see how she can reconcile herself to her duty to her son Philip, by
sacrificing his future expectations for an uncertain experiment. If
she leave Philip with Miss Flint, her weak fondness will be his ruin;
if she remove him, it is ten to one but that in a few months his place
in her heart will be filled up by a new favourite; and she will hate
him with the same fervour with which she at present conceives that his
society is requisite to the preservation of her life.’ ‘He must take
his chance, in this predicament,’ replied I; ‘and of two evils his
mother will chuse the _least_. He will be rendered virtuous, I trust,
by our cares, and he will escape the humiliating conditions annexed to
dependence and expectations. I have no doubt of his mother’s choice,
nor will Miss Flint’s fortune tempt her to leave her child to another’s
care.’ He made no reply, and we parted. From this ineffectual trial
of his eloquence, Mr. Flamall seemed convinced that I was not to be
managed: he spoke no more on the subject. I had in the mean time, as
I believed, silenced many of Miss Flint’s fears. I had engaged to
return in three years on a visit to Tarefield; and soothed her with
the prospect of Philip’s improvement, promising to be his tutor. She
seemed to consider our departure as inevitable; and to experience the
necessity of submitting with a good grace to a privation which she
could not prevent. The first week in October was fixed for our leaving
Tarefield; and September was given to our necessary preparations, and
Lucretia’s consolation.”
Sir Murdoch paused for some moments: at length resuming his narrative,
he said, “I am not quite certain, that what I have further to say
is strictly conformable with my own notions of honour, or with that
justice which is prescribed by our religion. My mind is prejudiced;
my suspicions rest on conjectural ground; and you must listen to what
follows with caution and candour. Believe, if it be possible, that
my infirmity of mind has raised up the hideous spectre I am about
to present to your eyes, and call it by any name but Flamall’s”--He
spoke with emotion, and wiped the faint dew from his forehead. “One
evening in the early part of September,” continued Sir Murdoch, “we
were summoned from the avenue by the servant, who said that supper was
served, and Mr. Flamall waiting for our return. I had, in conformity
with Harriet’s wishes, given more of my time than usual to Miss Flint,
who had appeared sensible of my consideration. She pressed me to sup
with her, and with good nature added, ‘you will find your favourite
ragout, which I ordered expressly for you.’ I made no objections; and
we entered the dining-room. Flamall was sitting at the spread table,
reading a newspaper. ‘I thought,’ said he, throwing it aside, ‘that
I was doomed to sup solus; all has been waiting here these twenty
minutes, and must now be cold.’ ‘Whose fault was that?’ replied Miss
Flint, taking her station. ‘If you had not given _your orders_, the
cook would have waited _for mine_.’ ‘I was half famished,’ answered
he, ‘and a hungry man is not observant of ceremony.’ During this
observation he helped himself to the ragout of mushrooms, which stood
at his hand, and with the eagerness of a keen appetite tasted them;
when abruptly retiring to the side-board he regorged what he had taken,
rinsed his mouth several times, and then swore, that one dish at least
was hot enough for the devil himself. Knowing his aversion to spice,
and particularly to Cayenne pepper, I was not disposed to condemn the
cook, or to reject the mushrooms on his evidence; I therefore exchanged
dishes with him, and helped myself to the reprobated mushrooms, and
finding them seasoned to my palate, I ate some. He observed me, and
remarked that he was astonished to see me relish so infernal a cookery.
‘They are rather overdone,’ said I, crossing my knife and fork, and
asking for beer; ‘but I have not yet done with them.’ The awkwardness
of the servant, or my haste, so managed the business, that the glass of
beer fell, inundated my plate, and was shivered in a number of pieces
among the mushrooms. Flamall cursed the servant; and my wife said she
was glad of the disappointment I had received; for that she had been
told, that in the great number of mushrooms apparently alike, there was
only one sort wholesome. Order, however, was restored, and the spirit
of contradiction gave place to more cheerful conversation.
“In the night I was suddenly seized with a violent pain and a severe
nausea, which was somewhat relieved by warm water; languor and
stupefaction succeeded to this effort of nature, and when the physician
saw me, he pronounced my life doubtful, and called the malady a _putrid
fever_. I was tempted to declare _my opinion of the disease_ for I had
heard _his_; but my wife was at my pillow. I soon became unconscious
of my condition; _memory closed its records_.
“I will not attempt to describe to you, the sensations which assailed
me, when I first recollected my wife. A sense of my own danger and of
her protection were at once so blended that I could not for a moment
support her absence. I was still persuaded that I had been poisoned;
but my imagination had given a new form to Flamall. I thought it was
a fiend invisible to all eyes but mine, and who watched to destroy my
wife and child. His voice was for ever ringing in my ears--‘They die
if you discover me!’ But let me quit a subject which unmans me, and
afflicts you. Well might I have said, ‘my kinsfolks have failed, and my
familiar friends have forgotten me; they that dwell in mine house, and
my maids, count me a stranger. I called my servant, and he gave me no
answer.’ One being only filled up this void, and that was _my Harriet_!
Soothed by her gentleness, supported by her presence, my apartment
was my world; and the horrors which had encompassed me gave place to
passive quietness and transient pleasure, for my son Malcolm amused me.
My recovery was slow and gradual; but in proportion as my reason gained
strength, and my health was renewed, I experienced the painful sense
of a mind conscious of its lost energies; and I considered myself as a
subject for unfeeling curiosity, rather than for respect or usefulness.
I shuddered with dread at the thoughts of being seen, and _for a time,
no persuasion_ could allure me into the garden. When, at length, I had
in some degree recovered from this despondency, I listened with more
docility to my wife’s tender entreaties, and by degrees the garden
became the boundary of my voluntary prison. Mr. Flamall’s proposal of
placing you here produced another change in my mind, for it roused in
me a sense of injuries, and a resentment which bespoke a mind once more
alive to its original character. I _will_ leave England, said I to
Malcolm, with an energy which astonished him. I will have no concerns
with Mr. Flamall. His very name is abhorrent to my ears. _He is a
villain!_ I checked myself; and Malcolm, to my surprise, said with
calmness, ‘I have long known him as one. But if _Maclairn_ can prevent
the mischief he is now meditating, will he not exert his prerogative?
My father is made for the agent of Providence in the cause of the
oppressed.’ He proceeded to inform me of the circumstances relative to
you, which had reached him by means of a young friend. The result of
this conversation you know. I was resolved to receive you, to guard you
from a less eligible situation, and in a word to shelter innocence, as
securely as I could, from the machinations of a man, who I have reason
to believe to be as cruel as he is artful and designing. Deprived
as you are, my dear young lady,” continued the worthy creature, “of
those pleasures which youth demands, and of the society of your early
friends, yet, believe me, you are not without a guardian here: my arm,
were it necessary, should protect you; and in a just cause, it would
yet be found a _Maclairn’s_.” His dark blue eyes were again fixed on my
face, but with what expression!--“Not even my Harriet’s claims,” added
he, “would restrain my vengeance, were my Matilda’s image insulted.”
“I neither fear Mr. Flamall’s power, nor have I submitted to his
authority,” replied I, “in choosing to withdraw from my friend Mr.
Hardcastle’s house.” My heart was on my lips, Lucy, and I briefly
related to him my motives. “But,” continued I, “little did I expect to
find a parent in any abode appointed by such a miscreant as Flamall.
I joyfully accept of the endearing title you offer: call me your
child, your daughter: your affection shall be returned in acts of
duty and reverence.” “And when you forsake us,” said he, relapsing
into pensiveness, “what are we to do?” “To rejoice in my happiness,”
answered I, “to solace your declining years with your Malcolm’s
children and mine; to live an evidence of that truth which promises
peace to the virtuous man, both _here_ and _hereafter_.”--“It is her
blessed spirit which speaks,” said he.--“I will not permit you, my dear
father,” answered I, “to indulge in this enthusiasm; let us call a new
subject.” “I will obey you,” replied he, “after one question. Tell me,
has it not been a matter of surprise to you, as well as of curiosity,
to see my wife so much influenced and attached to Miss Flint?” “Yes,”
replied I with firmness; “but your story has solved the enigma; Lady
Maclairn knows that her brother has been, and may be still dear to this
woman, and the sister’s humanity wishes to repair the mischief which
the brother’s infidelity has made.” He looked pleased. “It may be so,”
observed he, “for I know her principles.” His wife at this instant
entered, and with assumed gaiety I told her, that I had been making my
confession to Sir Murdoch, in return for his adopting me as a daughter.
She smiled, and answered that she hoped I was also disposed to receive
her as a mother. I gave her my hand, but added, “Will you be indulgent?
Will you, like my father, permit me to love the man whom my heart and
my understanding have prefered? On no other condition will I promise
to be your _dutiful daughter_.” “Receive the blessing on any terms, my
dear Harriet,” said the baronet, pressing our hands in his; “she has
already shed peace into my bosom, and hope and comfort into yours.”
Lady Maclairn made no other reply, than that of hiding her face in my
bosom, and weeping.
Again, Lucy, do I repeat for the thousandth time, that _all is not
genuine in this woman’s conduct_. There is a _something_ which
pervades and obstructs the display of those feelings which nature
has bestowed on her, as intended blessings to herself and others,
and with which she appears perpetually to struggle. At one moment
her heart seems to be on her very lips with me; at another, she is
silent, and as though intimidated by my presence. Sometimes I fancy
my frankness is obtrusive, and my manners too unceremonious. I become
more attentive, and she appears serious and more pensive, and anxiously
inquires whether I am displeased with her. My answer dissipates the
apprehension; cheerfulness returns, till some unguarded expression,
some casual incident, again impedes my access to her heart. I think,
Lucy, that she would not be a sufferer were she to trust me: I am
certain that my compassion is now the most active of my feelings. She
imagines, perhaps, that I think her a sharer in her brother’s plots and
contrivances; but she is mistaken, for I know that she has detested
him from the hour he proposed sending her husband to a mad-house; and
I am assured, that she has not the most remote suspicion of his having
in any way been accessary to Sir Murdoch’s illness; for she has more
than once told me, that his complaint came on as gradually as it has
disappeared, and originated in the catastrophe of his cousin’s death.
I must finish this subject. Mrs. Allen assures you that Miss Cowley is
well, and that her nightly dreams are not disturbed by _scarlet fevers_.
Heaven bless you, and all I love at Heathcot!